


lean with the blind trust of children

by whiplash



Series: we sleepy children [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: First Time, M/M, OT3, Rain, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:51:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1323874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplash/pseuds/whiplash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The laughing camaraderie which had filled him to the brim just moments ago has fled. His mouth has turned dry and his heart skips in his chest."</p>
            </blockquote>





	lean with the blind trust of children

The rain takes Paris by surprise.

The worn mothers and the young wives, returning home from the morning markets, scuttle forward with their hair plastered to their faces and their backs arched protectively over their baskets. The children run after them, shrieking with laughter and cold. The merchants step back into their stores while the working men hurry into the taverns and the out-of-towners back to their inns. A donkey, harnessed to a cart loaded heavy with barrels, begins to bray in distress as its owner abandons it to seek shelter underneath the arches of a bridge.

Porthos bursts into laugher. The rain hammers down on them, pouring down from the sky as if the angels have upended a thousand bucket, and Porthos just laughs as if God's just pulled the most amazing prank on them all. Aramis, soaked to the skin and cold to his very bones, finds himself stopping mid-step to stare at his friend with wide-eyed amazement.

"We'll catch our deaths standing here," he finally says. "That is if we don't drown first."

"But of course," grins Porthos, wrapping his arm around Aramis' waist in a most exaggerated show of gallantry, "allow me to escort you to safety, my lady."

Porthos, radiating warmth, stands tall and solid enough to block out some of the rain. Aramis tells himself that those are the reasons why he allows his friend to usher him away from the main street and down a half-familiar backstreet.

"You should be so lucky," he answers, the reply only a few beats too late. "I'll have you know, I'm not _that_ kind of lady."

Porthos snickers, a sound too juvenile to befit even young d'Artagnan.

"No," he agrees, pulling Aramis closer still. "From what I hear, you're _worse_."

At that, they both start laughing, clinging to each other like drunk men. Together they then stagger forward as the rain continues to fall around them.

"Here," Porthos eventually says, stopping by a building which Aramis recognizes as Athos'. "Even if he's not in, I wager it won't take much convincing for his landlord to let us wait the rain out in his chamber."

The stairway is dark and rank, smelling of urine and cheap candles. They find the door to Athos' chamber closed but when Porthos raps his knuckles against the wooden frame, a familiar voice calls for them to enter. Athos, warm and dry in a chair by the window, at first does little but raise an eyebrow and quirk his lips at their sudden, and damp, appearance. Something, perhaps the splatter of water against the floorboards as Aramis pulls his hat off his head or the maybe just ghost of old manners, propels him to his feet though.

"Come in," he says. "Close the door behind you."

There's nothing but ashes in the fireplace and the blankets on the bed, Aramis knows from experience, have worn thin. Athos, the frown between his eyes betraying his dismay, settles for offering them a drink from a half-full bottle of brandy. It's strong enough to bring tears to a man's eyes and Aramis, unprepared, begins to cough and splutter like a boy. This, of course, pushes Porthos over the brink of laughter again and soon he too succumbs to coughing. Athos, frown deepening, shakes his head at them.

"Best get out of those clothes," he orders, before nodding towards the door. "I'll get some firewood. Don't leave puddles on my floor."

The moment the door closes behind him, they're laughing again. Porthos, grin stretching from ear to ear, shakes his body like a dog might; spraying everything in sight with water. Aramis, hating to be outdone, tugs off one of his boots and empties the watery content onto the floor. They both stare, as wide eyed as children, while a perfect puddle forms.

"He'll make you mop that up," Porthos predicts, eyes dancing with mirth even as he turns his attention to undressing. He pulls his gloves off first, flexing his fingers before attacking the buttons of his jacket and the buckle of his belt. The pistols he place carefully on the table, along with the extra powder and the rapier. And his dagger. And his spare dagger.

Next goes his shirt, so soaked that it clings to his body. It produces the most unpleasant wet noise as it's pulled over his head. He then crosses the floor to wring it out into a pail by the window. While there, he takes his boots off as well, emptying the water into the same pail. This leaves him with a bare chest and bare feet and Aramis knows -- by God and the good virgin, he _knows_ \-- he's staring but he can't look away. The laughing camaraderie which had filled him to the brim just moments ago has fled. His mouth has turned dry and his heart skips in his chest. He thinks of Porthos' eyes. He thinks of his laughter. He thinks of the kiss that wasn't, all those months ago.

Even when Porthos turns, hands busy unlacing his trousers but his head raised and his mouth half-open as if to ask a question, Aramis can't bear to look away. Even though he knows that the truth must be there, written across his face for any fool to read. And Porthos, for all his childish delights, has never been a fool. Nor a coward.

"Oh," he says.

Then he's crossing the floor. He pins Aramis against the wall, gently but firmly. Their lips touch, and this time Aramis returns the kiss.

What Porthos, in his eagerness, attempts to hurry into a wild canter, Aramis slows to a leisurely trot. Where Porthos gives him sharp teeth, Aramis returns soft lips and a gentle tongue. When Porthos pushes, Aramis gives. Kissing, he murmurs in Porthos ear, should not be approached like a boy learning to spar but rather like a man taking on a new dance partner.

"You're still dressed, dancing master," Porthos answers, nibbling on Aramis' neck. "And very, very wet."

"Very," Aramis agrees, tearing himself away from the other man in order to rip at his own buttons. With Porthos help, he finds himself skin-to-skin with his friend. Soon Porthos' breath comes in shallow pants while Aramis' fingers have found the perfect hold in Porthos' curls. They're both shivering, half from cold and half from anticipation. The world, at once, spins too fast and moves too slow. He's lost, Aramis can freely admit this, but oh how wonderfully so.

"Next time, lock the door."

They jump apart, though much too late for it to do any good. Athos stands by the door, firewood in his arms and an unreadable expression on his face. Next to Aramis, Porthos begins to speak but Athos has already turned his back. It's stiff, giving away what his voice and face does not.

"Don't stop on my account," he adds over his shoulder as he busies himself with the fire. His hands are steady as he brushes the ashes into a bucket and they remain so as he stacks the logs.

It's not that Aramis has forgotten their kiss. It's not like it hasn't haunted him. It's just that if there's anything he excels at, if there's anything he's mastered, it's the art of locking his memories up in little boxes. His loves, his fears, his sorrows; they all have their places, in their boxes, on their shelves in his mind. He'll take them down, one by one, and bring them into the light but he doesn't allow them to mingle. Doesn't allow them to brew into the kind of poison which could kill a man. Or drive him mad.

But now, now it all falls into place. Now, it all makes sense.

So, for the first time since this madness started, Aramis will be the brave one.

"Who," he demands, "said anything about stopping?"


End file.
